


Slated

by russianwinter013



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers: Prime
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Explicit Gore, F/M, Hunters & Hunting, Implied Masochism, M/M, Multi, Sadism, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/russianwinter013/pseuds/russianwinter013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, I know there's some explaining needed.</p><p>1.) This was originally a flashback that was part of my other story Nameless, which is not posted on here.</p><p>2.) When D'Agloe said he picked Whiteblade off the streets, he was referring to when Whiteblade found him. Whiteblade's creators were murdered by assassins before him. The assassins were after his creators because of the ancient artifact they stole, which is now known as Whiteblade's sword. Many tried to take it from Whiteblade, but ever since he became one of the most feared assassins to walk the face of Cybertron, they stopped.</p><p>3.) Whiteblade hates D'Agloe, no matter if he was the one who trained him. He hated him from the start. So, when he stated (above in the story) that his revenge had already been served, it means that he took him in an unoccupied room and brutally murdered him.</p><p>Um...I think I addressed everything. If you don't understand any of the characters, leave questions in a review. Whiteblade and Redwing's bios are on my FanFiction profile page (search russianwinter013 on FF and scroll through my bio). Also, if you guys want a one-shot describing D'Agloe's death, feel free to request! I'm open to them!</p></blockquote>





	Slated

The target was in range.

He was assessing the situation. He could slice open its body with his sword; savor the scent of freshly spilled Energon or its screams of agony. He could gouge out its optics, its spark chamber…but  _no—_  that would off-line it too quickly. He wanted to enjoy his task.  _Enjoy **every moment…**_

"Whiteblade?"

He opened his optics and turned. One of the messengers, a thin Kaonite by the designation of Windfire, stood a few feet from the doorway. Her wings were twitching, and he knew she was nervous.

"He wants to see you."

Whiteblade nodded, turning his back and listening as the femme disappeared. He unsheathed his sword, turning it so it caught the light. The blade was the weapon he used the most, aside from his other known varieties. It was his signature; everyone feared it. Poison covered the polished black metal, only increasing its victim's pain, if they were not already dead by… other means.

 _"Whiteblade."_  A deep voice sounded over his comm.

He pressed the receive, continuing to survey his sword.

 _"I called for you."_  When there was not answer, the voice continued.  _"But you know that, don't you?"_  There was a low chuckle, one that sent reverberating waves of static throughout the ghostly mech's processor, making him hiss in agitation for a brief moment.  _"Your assignments for tonight are two: a Praxian by the name of Merge and a Kaonite called Deathrage. They owe me something and you will retrieve it. Understand?"_

Whiteblade sheathed his sword. A grin appeared, exposing his fangs.

"Yes."

* * *

He sat in his office. He had called Whiteblade in a few moments ago and was currently waiting for him to arrive. Everyone who worked for him was terrified of the ghost-like mech. He had a lot of lives on his hands, but the main thing that frightened them was his methods. Whiteblade enjoyed his work, to the point where he was now officially known as a psychopath.

The mech felt a gaze on him. He looked up. Whiteblade stood there, his crimson optics glowing. His sword was in its sheath, connected to his back. He knew the blade could kill if one so much as touched it, but it did nothing to its owner. There were myths that Whiteblade drank the poison itself.

_You wanted to see me?_

"Yes, I do." The other mech rarely spoke, if not answering with an affirmative or negative. "There is something I did not tell you about your mission."

The ghostly mech remained silent. He had known.

He drew in a deep vent. "You will have a partner."

Whiteblade froze. A  _partner?_

"Now listen, Whiteblade," he said as the tall mech raged silently, waves of dark fury rolling off of him and making his electromagnetic field flare and violently brush against that of his employer. He let out a deep exvent and leaned back in his chair in a supposedly lackadaisical manner, though it may have been to distance himself from the raging mech. "I know you aren't pleased by this, but our sources are running low. We can't have individuals anymore."

The assassin whipped around, his wings raised high. His optics were burning, and he knew that he was planning methods to steal his spark. He could see it—Whiteblade attacking viciously, leaving no trace behind…

"I feel it would be better if you were to meet your new partner," he said to the other, the slightest hint of fear creeping into his voice. He pressed his comm, ordering, "Bring her in."

 _Her?_  Whiteblade thought.  _It is a female?_

The door opened and Windfire entered, followed by a tall winged femme. She had a blood-red paint job and optics that matched. Her wings were tall and pointed, traced with streaks of gold and black. The sour look on her faceplate showed that she was as pleased with this arrangement as he was.

"Whiteblade, this is Redwing, and vice versa. I am sure you've heard of each other?"

They stared at each other, Redwing's optics narrow and Whiteblade as emotionless as a pile of scrap metal. He hoped the feared mech wasn't planning to slay the other; there had been incidents before that hadn't turned out so well.

"Windfire, escort them out," he ordered. "Make sure they don't kill each other."

The femme came to attention, heading towards the door. "Follow."

* * *

"You sure do not talk a lot."

He continued walking, remaining silent.

 _"Can_  you talk?" She looked up at him, her optics narrow. When he didn't answer, she intercepted his path, glaring at him. "Hello, I am talking to you!"

Whiteblade froze, staring down at her. After a moment, he moved around her.

"Are you always this rude?" She was becoming annoyed. "Why do you not speak?"

He growled at her, and she was taken aback. The noise was deep and terrifying, as startling as seeing one of the Predacon gangs outside.

"Oh, so you can  _growl_  but you cannot talk?" Redwing crossed her servos.

Whiteblade froze again, his gaze fixed on something else, farther away.

"What are you—?"

He hissed, baring his fangs. His servo rose and he unsheathed his sword. The look in his optics stated that she should be quiet if she wanted to keep her vocalizer.

 _Sorry._  Her voice sounded in his mind.

He let out a low growl.  _Why are you in my head?_

 _Ah._  She grinned.  _So you **can**  talk._

_Yes, and you have figured it out. Now **get out!**_

_Fine, but what are you staring at?_

He didn't respond. His wings were twitching, she noticed, and he looked furious. Despite his obvious rage, he was completely motionless.

She opened her scanners, sensing nothing. They may have been faulty, though, because Whiteblade clearly sensed something.

 _Whiteblade,_  she murmured.  _What is going on?_

No answer.

_Whiteblade, what—_

Something glinted in the air, and she moved at the last moment. A razor sharp dagger stood in her place. Whiteblade turned, his optics a fire straight from the Pit. He growled, deep and low, as he faced her.

_It was not me._

He continued moving closer, his gaze narrow. He certainly looked terrifying and his rage seemed directed at her. What had she—?

Out of the blue, his sword was out and slicing through the air toward her, stopping mere inches from her.

"What are you—?"

The sword flashed again, and she scowled and dodged. "What in Primus' name are you  _doing?!"_

Whiteblade said nothing, pointing to the ground with his sword. The remnants of blades and arrows covered the area in which Redwing had been standing.

Crimson optics locked with crimson, and a deep and reverberating growl rumbled from deep within the chassis of the ghostly mech.

"Oh." She felt like a glitch-head. He had not been  _attacking_  her, he had been  _protecting_  her.

_Thank you._

He said nothing, glaring up at the roof of the building over the alley. As if on cue, two figures leaped down from them, landing with a slight thud.

"Look who crawled out of the cesspool of D'Agloe," one of them, a tall Praxian, hissed at them. Half of his faceplate was burned, flaking in some places and completely gone in others.

"Yes, yes, dwellers of the place of the Junkion." The other, an even taller Kaonite with huge scarred wings, grinned maniacally at them. "We will end, end you, yes we will!" His voice deepened dramatically, a growl filled with rage and insanity.

 _Whiteblade, who are they?_  She kept her gaze on the two, her wings raised high and her claws—one of her own choice weapons—extended.

 _Targets._  He spoke only one word, his voice deep and quiet. His attention was fixed on the two, his inner voice taking control as his electromagnetic field flared dangerously.  _Kill, maim, destroy. Tear them apart, enjoy your work, enjoy it to the fullest. Leave no trace behind. Taste their souls, lovely, delicious souls. Hot, delicious Energon. Taste, feel…_

She now understood why he was referred to as an animal. He was insane, more so than the two in front of them.

 _Stop standing there and attack. D'Agloe will not be pleased if you disobey._ His telepathic voice was deeper than it had been before, and it was filled with a dark and demented sort of hunger, a realization that sent chills down her spinal components.

_If you are so intent on following orders, why are you not doing anything?_

He did not bother to answer. He was staring at their opponents. The Praxian stared back, while the Kaonite bared his pointed dentia, his wings flicking the air and a truly berserker insane grin on his faceplate. They were watching, waiting to see who would strike first.

Metal flashed in the Praxian's servo, and something shot out of it, heading towards them. Whiteblade blocked it with his sword, the impact of the thrown dagger smashing it to pieces against the coated metal.

Merge, the Praxian, stared in shock. "He blocked it  _and_  destroyed it! Do you know how hard that is to replace?!"

Deathrage laughed maniacally. "Broke it, he did! Break, break, I will break them!" His dentia extended even further, making his mouth seem like an exact match to the poisonous and gaping maw of a Predacon.

 _Exploit their weaknesses,_  Whiteblade ordered Redwing, his voice a cold signal that he was slowly losing what remained of his own corrupted sanity.  _They have many._

_How do you know?_

_Merge, the Praxian—servo and wrist. Deathrage—backstrut and wings._  He shifted, his wings twitching and optics narrow. His own fangs were bared, razor sharp and ghostly white.

Redwing took in their opponents, searching for the places the assassin had told her. She did notice Merge's servo and left wrist reacting rather poorly to any assault forced onto them. The Kaonite's wings flicked the air in violent jerks, and when he turned a large stab wound was visible in his lower backstrut. But she noticed something else as well.

_Whiteblade, Merge's faceplate—the exposed bone is sensitive, as well as the areas around the flaking and scarring._

He growled, glossa running over his fangs. She saw the look in his optics and shuddered mentally. He actually looked  _hungry_  for their lives.

Merge continued throwing daggers, becoming increasingly infuriated as the ghostly mech blocked them. Eventually, he abandoned the method and went to using an acid pellet gun and an enhanced photon blaster.

Deathrage, however, was harder to battle. Despite his massive height, it was impossible to tell where he was going to strike from. He vanished and appeared without a trace, his dentia exposed and snapping and his optics a fire straight from the Pit. His psychotic, rumbling laughter echoed with a somewhat ominous effect. He was insane, no doubt about it, but he somehow had enough sense to know how to dodge almost every attack directed at him—if he was hit, it seemed to do no damage—as he moved with unnatural speed and silence.

Pain tore through her servo, and she hissed, jerking back. One of Merge's daggers was embedded deep into her upper servo, Energon pouring from the wound. Merge stood grinning, the effect somewhat alarming with most of his charred infrastructure showing. But his look of triumph soon vanished as she snarled at him and charged. He dodged her first few attacks, the misses only infuriating her further. What startled her was that he had claws, an uncommon feature in a normal Praxian. They latched onto her wings, tearing deep slashes. She growled, jerking free and raking her claws against the exposed infrastructure. He howled in pain, stumbling back and glaring at her with fury-filled optics. Redwing secretly took out her plasma-charged dagger, hiding it in the small compartment of her fore-servo. Merge did not notice the movement; he was attempting to ignore his pain and focus on taking out the femme.

Nearby, Whiteblade was fighting Deathrage. Whiteblade could tell by the way the other moved that he had gone through extensive endurance and attack training, explaining his unnatural invulnerability. He unsheathed his sword, abandoning his other methods for the moment. Deep down, he felt that this was his hardest kill ever. Deathrage was experienced, maybe more so than himself. He knew how to dodge—a simple thing, really, considering the current situation—and how to strike where it hurt the most. There were not many places that were vulnerable on Whiteblade or Deathrage, which made it all the more difficult to get close and strike to kill.

Whiteblade's sword left a large tear in Deathrage's leading servo. The Kaonite did not express his pain, only snarling and baring his fangs as his own claws tore a substantial amount Whiteblade's faceplate off. The white mech hissed, rearing back and spitting out a fair amount of Energon. He glared at the Kaonite, who stared back, his optics blazing and wings flaring high. It was then Whiteblade noticed that the other's wings were unfolding into even larger ones. He was a Predacon.

A static-laced scream hit his audios. Turning his attention away briefly, he saw Redwing pull out a plasma dagger buried in Merge's spark chamber, and he fell back, his optics flickering with their last light as his Energon stained the filthy alley path. Redwing stepped over his body, her optics a boiling soup of red.

 _Do you need any assistance?_  Her voice sounded in his mind, and he could feel her dark satisfaction at being rid of such a nuisance.

He growled aloud, keeping his gaze on the insane Predacon.  _Do not allow him to transform._

She stared at Deathrage, noticing the Predacon symbol. Flames suddenly erupted over her body, and a somewhat unsettling grin split her faceplate.  _Believe me, I do not intend to._

* * *

"You  _what?!"_

Redwing crossed her servos, her optics narrowing. "We could not secure the package."

"Why couldn't you?!"

Whiteblade growled forebodingly, his wings rising.  _Watch your tone._

"Don't you forget, I was the one who picked you off the streets, and I can just as easily leave you there again!" D'Agloe spat, his rage getting the better of him.

In a flash, Whiteblade had the crime lord pinned to the wall, one servo over his neck while the other unsheathed his sword. His crimson optics blazed, and his fangs glinted in the light. He reveled in the fear growing in the mech's optics. Redwing stood back, watching and somewhat amused at the assassin's methods.

Redwing did not miss the insane glint of scorching red optics when the poisonous sword began to carve into D'Agloe's armor, nor did she miss his pleased growl when he began to scream.

"Whiteblade!"

They turned. Slate and Firestorm, two of the others that worked there, stood in the doorway. Slate's massive frame filled the entrance and Firestorm's orange optics burned with an abhorrence no one could match up to.

"Release him!" Firestorm bellowed. His powerful, booming voice belied his slim frame, reverberating throughout the room with a cold accuracy.

"He will," Redwing assured them. Her mouthplates curled into a sadistic smirk. "At least, when he is through with him."

The two mechs paid no attention to her and began to follow the ghostly mech, who proceeded to drag D'Agloe out of the room.

 _I am not through,_  Whiteblade hissed at her.  _Divert them._

A sadistic smirk curled back thin mouthplates as a faint drone came from the femme's engine.  _With pleasure._

Redwing snarled and blocked their path, not seeming to care that she was smaller than both of them. Her wings flared wide and threatening. "You will not pass. He is not through with him."

Slate snarled down at the bothersome femme. "Get out of our way."

She scowled, baring jagged dentia. "What will you do if I do not? You cannot attack a fellow worker."

His optics narrowed. "You are not a fellow worker. You are a commodity that will be forgotten soon enough."

Redwing hissed, her optics blazing. "I could say the same for you, pit-bound scavenger. Or did you forget your failed career at Kaon?"

"How do you know about that?" His voice hardened with shock and defensiveness.

"Ah, ah, ah." She shook her helm, a small smile on her lips. "Secrets are called secrets for a reason." Her optics brightened suddenly. "I know! How about we play a game?"

Slate and Firestorm exchanged a glance, silently wondering who the crazy femme before them was.

But she continued on, seemingly oblivious to their incredulous stares. "I learned about it during my time on a foreign planet. I believe the closest translation is 'hide-and-seek'." She grinned at them, exposing her long fangs. "You hide, and I will find you." The blades hidden in her fore-servos extended, glinting in the dim light. "I will give you a head start. But I strongly suggest that you hide well, for when I find you…" She was suddenly closer to them. Her long claws trailed lightly over their armor, almost affectionately. "…I will  ** _not_**  hesitate to offline you." She tightened her grip, raking her fingers through their armor and ripping it to shreds. The pain tore them from their startled stupor and they jerked back, hissing.

"You will regret that," Slate snarled. His servo morphed into its blaster, the energy inside churning and whirring.

"Who is going to make me?" She put her servo on her hip, examining the claws on her other servo almost carelessly. Slate shifted, aiming his weapon at her while she was seemingly distracted. She moved with incredible speed, and suddenly the mech's blaster was in her grasp.

 _"You?"_  she hissed, grinning up at him. Her optics blazed as her grip tightened and she tore off the blaster. Slate roared in pain, stumbling back and nearly running into his companion as sizzling Energon poured from his gaping wound.

Firestorm merely moved out of the way as the other fell to the ground, unconscious. "Glitch-head." Even at a mutter, his voice was still strangely rumbling.

Redwing narrowed her optics as he faced her, her wings flaring.

"Enough." He waved a dismissive servo. "You should locate your partner. I fear there is nothing left of D'Agloe, with this much time we have given him to exact his revenge." He spoke calmly as he removed his shredded piece of armor, eyeing it critically, before opening his subspace and pulling out a repair kit. She stared in shock as he sat casually in the chair reserved only for their leader.

Redwing wondered who the mech thought he was. "You were defending D'Agloe a moment ago, and now you are sitting as though you run the place. Who are you?"

Firestorm looked up at her, his optics analyzing. "Did no one tell you?" At the shake of her helm, he laughed. The sound was deep and powerful, and it sent a shudder through her. "My real designation is Darkblade. I am here from the Iaconian Special Operation and Undercover Unit. I was sent here by my commanding officer to incarcerate your ruler. He has killed many high-ranking senators and lords."

Redwing scowled. "What makes you believe that we will allow it?" Surely he had heard of the rumors and stories. No undercover government agent made it out of here alive if their secret was revealed...

"There are other undercover agents here, not just me. My agents are apprehending D'Agloe at the moment, provided that your partner left enough of him to put in stasis cuffs."

As if on cue, the white mech appeared. His crimson optics were narrowed and he gave off the anger of someone disrupted from a task.

 _Did you know about this?_  He demanded of her, his voice filled with fury.

_No. I just learned of this myself. Apparently Firestorm is a spy for the Iaconian government, and he is apprehending D'Agloe as we speak._

Whiteblade growled, the sound echoing in her mind and in her audio receptors.  _No, he is not. There is nothing left of him._

"I apologize for interrupting your telepathic conversation, but I have matters to discuss with you," Darkblade murmured as he opened a control panel on his uninjured servo and pressed a button. They watched as his red and orange paint faded, replaced with a deep purple, one that was almost black in its darkness, which was highlighted with black and dark blue. His optics turned a fiery red, blazing with some emotion that contrasted highly against the unnerving calm of his voice. They were not focused at the moment, and his sudden silence unsettled her.

Then, they cleared and fixed on the two. "Seeing as I am the head of this operation now, I must take into account the variables in this situation and how they affect the surrounding area and the work that is needed to be done." His fierce optics narrowed. "Thus, I am banning you from this operation."

"'Banning'?" Redwing hissed, her wings flaring. "You cannot  _ban_  us! You think simply because you are a government spy that you can take over just like that? We will not respond well to this!"

"I can do whatever I please, as of now." Darkblade's optics narrowed, burning with a cold light. "I will not lie to my new workers, and I will not lie to you. I cannot have hostilities in this arrangement. It would only cause illogical actions and vendettas that would mar the…somewhat smooth flow of mutual aid you all have built."

Whiteblade snarled and stepped forward. His sword, still in his grasp, glinted in the dim lighting. Energon—undoubtedly D'Agloe's—dripped from the polished black metal.

Darkblade bared his own dentia, startling them. They were jagged, seemingly able to tear through anything, and two near the corners of his mouth were fangs longer than those of the blood red assassin before him.

Whiteblade glared back, not about to let a government spy get the best of him. Darkblade stood; his flared wings making his suddenly colossal frame seem bigger.

"I suggest you get out before I am forced to depend upon less civil methods of reasoning." The Vocian's voice was even more powerful, echoing everywhere.

Redwing snarled, extending her blades and making to attack before a cold servo on her own stopped her. It was Whiteblade. He stared down at her, his fiery optics narrow.

_Do not attack. He is not worth it._

_You of all of us should be the first to attack him! What about your revenge?_

_My revenge has already been served._  His wings flicked into a respective yet slightly irritated position as he stepped into the hall over Slate's deactivated body.  _Stay and kill him if you must, but do not expect me to come to your rescue._

She stared in shock as the ghostly mech disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know there's some explaining needed.
> 
> 1.) This was originally a flashback that was part of my other story Nameless, which is not posted on here.
> 
> 2.) When D'Agloe said he picked Whiteblade off the streets, he was referring to when Whiteblade found him. Whiteblade's creators were murdered by assassins before him. The assassins were after his creators because of the ancient artifact they stole, which is now known as Whiteblade's sword. Many tried to take it from Whiteblade, but ever since he became one of the most feared assassins to walk the face of Cybertron, they stopped.
> 
> 3.) Whiteblade hates D'Agloe, no matter if he was the one who trained him. He hated him from the start. So, when he stated (above in the story) that his revenge had already been served, it means that he took him in an unoccupied room and brutally murdered him.
> 
> Um...I think I addressed everything. If you don't understand any of the characters, leave questions in a review. Whiteblade and Redwing's bios are on my FanFiction profile page (search russianwinter013 on FF and scroll through my bio). Also, if you guys want a one-shot describing D'Agloe's death, feel free to request! I'm open to them!


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